


The Captain's Club for Wayward Veterans

by ShannonXL



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Canon Related, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13383114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: What's a superhero to do when the Big Bad is finally defeated and the world doesn't need the costumes and capes anymore?Sam and Bucky use their newfound spare time wisely. Looking out for the little guy, seeing more of the world, and flirting as only two wisecracking sweethearts can.





	1. I’m In A Different World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrighteyedJill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/gifts).



“You good, Jay?” Sam closes the trunk with a click. The afternoon sunlight catches on his belt buckle, and James has to remind himself that yes, there is a knife, and no, it is not a current threat. Sam is on his team. Sam is on his team not like a commander or a handler. He shadows James in a way that is unfamiliar and unsettling, but not unpleasant. Sam is like an extension of himself, a limb that thinks and reacts on its own.

“Good,” he nods, piling his gear into the back seat of the car. Nothing needs to be cleaned; he never removed anything from the cases. The bulky weapons settle on the cushion with a satisfying plop.

With a yawn, Sam stretches. His shirt slips upwards, revealing a millimeter of bare skin.

“You want to stick around for a little while? Grab a bite? Might be nice to eat something with a fork and knife, from a table instead of our laps.”

James hears the suggestion in Sam’s voice, the sense of longing. Not for food in particular, but for the comfort of a  _ meal _ . The sensation of stability that comes from staying in one place for long enough to eat, to chat up a waitress, to digest, without the tension of going somewhere to interrupt the process. Learning the inside of a restaurant at one’s leisure instead of the speed of necessity. This art of enjoyment is something that James is still trying to understand. Had he been on his own, he might not have eaten at all. Instead, they have collected what Sam calls “junk food” from rest stops and drive-thru windows, and James does not miss the dizzy, blurry feeling he’s used to after a long mission.

“We can stop. I don’t mind.”

Sam nods, but doesn’t head for the driver’s seat yet. Instead, he surveys the horizon. James concludes he is once again being ‘thoughtful’, which is Sam’s vague way of describing the complicated series of emotions he carefully tucks away behind a bland, not unwelcoming expression. 

“I could drive. If you want a break.”

Sam is startled, and it takes him a moment to come back to earth.

“Nah man, driver picks the music. I’ve heard enough of the Great American Songbook for one lifetime, thank you.”

James grunts.

“That’s Steve’s music. I’m old, I’m not deaf.”

The joke has the desired effect; Sam snorts, shrugging.

“Sure. I could use a break.” He crosses to the passenger side. “Just don’t think you can sneak some Irving Berlin past me.”

Shrugging, James catches the keys as Sam tosses them. “I’m feeling charitable. I’ll let you pick the music.”

“Oh?” Sam wiggles his eyebrows. “You trying to sweet-talk me Jay?”

James rolls his eyes and gets in the car, having decided that it’s time to leave and Sam can join him - or not. 

He does, buckling his seatbelt a second after James shifts gears and presses the gas pedal. Beside him, Sam fiddles with the bluetooth menu that dominates the dashboard. A million settings - a heated steering wheel for Chrissake - and not one decent radio station. When he’s alone, James finds his preference is a toss-up between bland talk radio or the steady sound of air whooshing past the open window. He finds the frequent commercials to be jarring, alienating in their cycle of problem-product-solutions that he can’t relate to even when it’s something he can actually understand. The music is worse. He’d tried to listen to it, but he found himself stopping too often, writing too many things down, and realized quickly that he’d never have time to research it all. And even though he does, maybe, the list was so long by the time he gave up and every new thing he added meant hours and hours as he tried to untangle every detail, seven decades of linguistic evolution and cultural shifts that he can’t quite grasp, and the more he thinks about it the worse his head starts to feel. 

Sam settles on something from his iPod, and a familiar voice starts crooning from the speakers. James doesn’t need to worry about his list, because soon Sam will start filling in the blanks, unable to contain his enthusiasm. 

“Did we hear this already?”

“Not this song.” Sam closes his eyes, tapping his fingers against his knee in time with the song. “I had this on cassette when I was a kid. Played it so many times my radio ate the tape.” He smiles, glancing at James. “It’s kind of your song.”

“How? I was probably dead before any of these guys were alive.”

“You say that like there aren’t songs written about you.”

James mock-shudders.

“They’re all terrible. You’d think, all the times my memory got wiped, someone would have done me the favor of wiping that too, but nope. I’ll have ‘Gone Is Baby Bucky’ stuck in my head until I die.”

Sam actually laughs at that, full-bodied and deep. It’s a gratifying sound.

“Okay, okay, I’m gonna play it again,” he says, still chuckling. “Just listen. And don’t you dare group the Four Tops together with Reagan’s ill-advised propaganda album.”


	2. Fortunate Son

Sam chooses a motel from his Green Book App, setting up the GPS to narrate directions. James suppresses the panic rising up in his stomach at the security vulnerabilities - too many digital back doors, too many ways to be tracked. He knows it doesn’t matter. The mission is over, they have yet to choose another one. He could cease to exist and it would not mean failure. But he does not want that for Sam. 

To put himself at ease, James reminds himself that he and Sam work well together. They are both alert, unlikely to be taken by surprise. They can be ruthless when they need to be. These are pragmatic details that ground him better than any minutiae about date, time, and location. He knows this information like he knows how to set up a sniper rifle, take aim through concrete based on the sightlines of collateral damage. He can recite the date in twelve languages, knows the hour in all twenty-four time zones, and knows his coordinates in LTP, ENU, and ECEF. There is little in this that comforts him, but it is empowering to know that if they are attacked, he can likely get Sam out alive. 

“You ok to sleep here tonight?”

“Sure,” James endeavors to smile. “Seems like a good spot.”

They assemble a meal of diner leftovers and mini bar snacks, eating to the soundtrack of the evening news. Nothing remarkable. Sam is a thorough eater, orderly, and James thinks he can hear the echo of a grandmother’s admonishment to clear the place in the way that Sam gathers any crumbs to the side before scooping them up on the broad part of his fork. It’s the same meticulous grace James has observed in firefights and first aid alike. 

When he’s finished, Sam sighs.

“Think I might go for a run. Clear my head a little.”

James nods, bracing himself for the exertion before Sam says-

“On my own, if that’s ok? I’ll carry a tracker. By all means, if I’m not back in an hour feel free to come after me guns blazing.” He smiles. “As much as I enjoy having you with me, I know I’m holding you back whenever we run together. Keeps me in my head.”

James accepts this. He is familiar with the concept of being trapped inside one’s head. Though it is fortunate, he feels, that few people understand it as literally as he does. Sam, in particular, should never know what that feels like. He occupies himself with a report of the mission. It is not for anyone. But the process feels essential. Steve had recommended journaling, before James had convinced him that the world needed Captain America more than he needed his childhood friend. A mission report is like journaling, he thinks. The process of compartmentalizing and deconstructing experiences, giving them the illusion of order and meaning, is soothing and logical. A record of a lifetime’s misdeeds. 

Of course, Steve had also been adamant that James Buchanan Barnes is more than a file. More than a list of confirmed kills. A series of mission reports. He didn’t need Steve to tell him that, but understands it was kindness. As a bona fide cause of death, James knows that a life can’t be quantified by documentation alone. 

He is outside smoking when Sam returns, well within the agreed-upon hour. James has been monitoring his progress via the tracker, watching his about-face before he reached the highway and begin the return trek. Sam sees him, but doesn’t accelerate, and finishes his run at a good pace, only a little winded. James finishes his cigarette while Sam stretches, and he doesn’t resist the pull of attraction coiling in his belly. Sam’s broad shoulders tug at the seams of his soft cotton shirt, and James wonders what it might be like to have those shoulders in his palms. 

He appreciates the view. 

“See something you like?”

James smirks.

“Sure do.”

Sam is dazed for a moment, which is not a surprise. He is careless with his good looks, sharing his bright smile with cheerful abandon. James nods at the vacant space to his right, where he has a towel and a bottle of water at the ready, and with a receptive chuckle Sam joins him.

“Don’t know how you can smoke those man.” Sam frowns. “You know those’ll kill you, right?”

“Sure,” James snorts. “A little nicotine is gonna be the straw that breaks my super-soldier back. Get what you needed out of your run?”

“Think so.” Sam takes a gulp of water, swishing it around in his mouth. “I was giving some thought to our next steps here. In terms of the next  _ mission _ , I mean.”

James nods.

“I thought you might.”

Sam snorts.

“I like to think I’m not  _ that _ predictable, so we’re gonna say your super-senses helped you out, okay?” He shakes his head, swiping at the trickle of sweat tracing his jawline. “We came here because this was kind of Our Thing, you know? We caught wind of the Bad Guy with stolen Hydra Tech… I dunno. It just feels like maybe this is a specialty that won’t be necessary for much longer.”

James resists the urge to light another cigarette, in deference to Sam’s highly mortal lungs.

“We worked ourselves out of a job, you mean.”

Sam nods.

“Something like that. But there’s still so much…” he doesn’t finish the sentence. James can fill in the blanks. So much suffering. The kind that comes as a byproduct of deliberate human cruelty, or indifference. It is grating, to know that they have almost completely eradicated such a vast and terrible evil, yet they have succeeded in reducing so little of the world’s ills. 

“You want to do something else.”

Sam nods.

“Yeah. You know,” he sighs. “I thought I’d retired. That helping out Cap was a one-time thing. But I keep making a different choice.” Sam takes another sip of water, frowning. “I used to tell guys like me that the work is never really done, that it’s okay to let someone else take over where you left off. To let go.” He shakes his head. “I’m not surprised they didn’t believe me. I don’t believe me either.” When he looks at James, full-on, the weight of it is staggering. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

James can’t think of anything to say, and Sam gives himself a shake and draws back before he can stop him.

“I mean, this, I guess. Keep driving for a while. See who else needs saving.” With a huff, he finishes the water. “But where’s the end? At what point do I call enough enough and call it quits?”

James elbows him. “You’re talking to a guy who didn’t know when you quit when he died seventy years ago. This road trip with you is as close to ‘taking it easy’ as I’ve ever gotten.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Fine. You win at misery poker now and forever.” With a groan, he stretches his calf. “I need a shower. Catch you in a few.”

James understands, watching Sam slip away to give himself a respite. Some things are easier left unsaid.


	3. 1999

James pretends to be absorbed in the maps spread out on his bed, penciling notes in a code he’d invented back in… 1982? It’s difficult to keep the years together in his head, like arranging disjointed scenes in a film he’s never watched all the way through, but the code relies on an understanding of Polish, Czech, German and Russian, and those are the languages he’d been using at the time. It seems polite to muse on this almost-benign part of his past, instead focusing on the fact that Sam is leaning against the doorframe in only a towel.

“You plotting something Jay?”

“Planning,” he places the pencil deliberately, making sure that it won’t roll away in a direction that will force him to look up and see, well. A sight he is very much interested in seeing. 

Sam is no help at all, coming closer so he can lean over the maps, scanning them with his aviator’s perspective. 

“That’s one heck of a scenic route back to base.” James can hear him frowning over his shoulder. “And you forgot to put the base at the end of the itinerary.”

James shrugs. 

“It didn’t sound like we were in any kind of rush.”

“It didn’t sound like we’d made any decisions to extend our trip either.” 

“Correct.” James chances a quick peek at Sam- just his expression, to gauge his emotional response. There is nothing of great concern, though there is a playful glimmer in Sam’s eyes that James is wary of imposing his own feelings onto. “I plan for every contingency. These are options for extending our mission. If that’s what you decide you want to do.”

Sam’s brows go up. “Well, ok then.” It’s not an unhappy tone, the way he says it. Sam blows a puff of air through his lips (James can feel it disturbing the thin hairs on the back of his neck) before dragging a chair to the other side of the bed so he can take a seat across from him. James knows that it would be strange to continue to avoid looking at him, but it is his first impulse. He dismisses it in favor of giving in to what he wants, and stares at Sam without any attempt to conceal it. 

His posture is open, as always. It is incongruous to see him sitting in a towel the way he does when… well, always. With his arms uncrossed, feet comfortably rooted to the floor a shoulder width apart, the posture of parade rest unshakable even in such a casual position. James knows that Sam is generally considered to be good-looking, but it is the unconventional details that he finds himself drawn to. The hereditary diastema between his incisors. The slender wisps of his eyelashes. The soft arch of his philtrum, creasing as Sam starts to smile.

James realizes that he has been aggressively staring at Sam’s face. And Sam has definitely noticed. 

“You okay James?”

“You’re attractive.”

Sam shrugs.

“I like to think so.”

James nearly rolls his eyes.

“You’re attractive  _ to me _ .”

Sam ducks his head.

“That’s- thanks.”

James is very, very good at reading people. He is able to distill a million different signals and vocal patterns and muscular responses into a pattern of behavior, extrapolating understanding from there. He has been called perceptive, but the process is not so much intuitive as mechanical. He is generally correct about what he discerns, and he is optimistic as he rises, walking around the bed with careful steps. He stands in front of Sam (not over him, not looming), and feels a shift in the air, like sunlight gentle on his skin after hours standing in the shade. 

“I get the sense,” he drawls, making his voice soft, “you’d like me to do something about it.”

Sam gulps.

“Yeah,” his voice comes out raspy. “Yeah, I’m into that.”

James needs no more encouragement. He folds himself gently to his knees, watching Sam’s face for any hint of confusion or revulsion, finding instead the heat blossoming on his cheeks, expression rapt. James reaches up with his right hand, wanting to feel Sam’s skin beneath his fingers. He cups his jaw, telegraphing his purpose as he leans closer. James doesn’t understand why people in movies close their eyes when they kiss, because then they miss the most incredible series of emotions playing across their partners’ faces. He watches Sam as he closes the space between them, memorizing every fluttering eyelid, the coy grin that surfaces just a moment before their lips touch. Sam makes a delicate sound, and James intends to remember it forever. 

He leans back, scanning Sam’s dreamy look.

“That all you were planning on doing?” He murmurs, the brusqueness of his words a stark contrast from the breathy timbre of his voice. 

“Nope,” James can’t keep the smirk off his face. “Just getting started. May I?” He gestures at the towel still wrapped precariously around Sam’s hips. Sam blinks down at is, as if he’s forgotten all about it.

“Be my guest.”

James takes it slow, placing a few taunting kisses on Sam’s chest as he tenderly lifts the folds of the towel, untucking the loose knot bunched up at the top of Sam’s pelvis. With one finger, he follows the trail of soft dark hair starting from Sam’s belly down, down, pausing at the base of his shaft. He’s thick already; just a few stokes and James is certain he’ll be completely hard. He looks up at Sam, and his eyes are aglow.

“No need to stand on ceremony,” Sam whispers. 

Without looking away, James takes him in hand.

Sam’s answering groan is deep and protracted, and the sound of it sends a shudder down James’s spine. He starts with a few soft tugs, and entertained as Sam struggles to keep his hips from twitching. The smell of him is stronger now; it surrounds James, a complex blend of sharp alkaline and musky chypre, cool and intoxicating beneath the scent of tap water and soap. Sam is throbbing now beneath his palm.

“I gotta say,” Sam purrs, “I like the way you think.”

“Good,” James gives him another gentle squeeze, eliciting a delicious gasp. “Because I have a few more ideas.”

“A plan for every… contingency,” Sam exhales, stumbling over a wry smile.

“Something like that,” James agrees. He licks his lips. Leans closer, letting the heat of his breath fall across Sam’s lap. Watching Sam realize what he intends to to makes heat rise in his belly, Sam’s arousal stoking his own. He bends down, making a wide stroke up Sam’s cock with his tongue. The warmth and weight of him are intoxicating. Cautious, reverent, decisive, James opens his mouth wide and swallows Sam down. 

His throat works, accommodating the intrusion, and James adjusts his position before starting his ministrations in earnest. This isn’t something he’s had much opportunity to perfect in this new life of his, but he knows what he likes and something about the rhythm, moving up and down in a lazy glide, feels familiar. Even the ache in his jaw is close to comfortable, and when he peeks at Sam he feels his heart fluttering in his chest. Sam is awestruck, awash in bliss, and it strikes James down to the core to know that he is doing that. He moves his tongue experimentally, rubbing it against the underside of Sam’s cock, using the other man’s sighs as a metric of success. It feels like he can taste every sound Sam is making, and they’re all going directly to his own groin. 

“I’m going to- I’m close,” Sam’s voice is pitched lower than James has ever heard it. “If you, I’m, it’s-”

James knows what he’s getting at, and he adds a little more pressure, flicking his tongue with a little more vigor, desperate to see Sam pushed over the edge of pleasure. The sharp breath he takes just seconds before erupts into a trembling, groaning sigh, and James swallows the ejaculate, hot and bitter in his throat. 

Sam grasps his face in both hands and kisses him almost immediately, eager and fierce, panting like he’s just finished another run. James doesn’t have time to steady himself before Sam upsets his equilibrium entirely, and they both tumble onto the floor in a writhing confusion of groping limbs. Sam, on top of him, is hardly distracted and struggles to undress James with uncoordinated fingers. Caught in Sam’s whirlwind, James is hardly much help, distracted by the hasty kisses being pressed against his neck, his lips, his collarbone - it feels like Sam is everywhere at once. James manages to unbuckle his belt, and is unable to keep in the honest-to-god  _ sob _ of relief when Sam slips a hand down his briefs. 

“Won’t,” he pants, “last… long.”

Sam responds by catching him in another crushing kiss, sucking on his bottom lip. Light-headed, James forgets for a moment where he ends and Sam begins. The palm pressing up against his cock could belong to either of them, for every shift feels like it’s answering a call from somewhere deep inside him, one that knows exactly what he needs and how badly he needs it. 

Sam rubs his teeth against James’s skin, just beneath his ear.

“You like that?”

He groans, not sure how clearly he’s said ‘yes’, worried he’s not capable of coherent speech for the moment. He wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrist, grinding his hips up against him, sure  _ that _ message at least is loud and clear. 

“Yeah,” Sam’s voice rumbles as he nips at James’s ear. “Can you finish for me baby? Wanna see you.” His breath is hot and James shudders, every part of him tingling with the force of his building orgasm. Sam gets a firm grip on his cock, starting a brisk rhythm that sets off sparks, tension mounting, hot and fierce as Sam once again whispers deep into his ear:

“Do it Jay. Come for me.”

James nearly chokes as he climaxes, muscles going slack, like he’s floating somewhere intangible. It’s like a shock of fresh water to his system, like falling, only he knows exactly where he’s going to land. As the thrumming in his body fades, he realizes that Sam hasn’t moved yet, is looking down at him fondly, and he decides that he’d like to see more of that if he can.

“I want you to look at me like that.” He considers. “A lot.”

Sam strokes his temple.

“Like what?”

“Like we just had sex.”

Sam snorts.

“I guess that can be arranged.” He rolls his shoulders. “Are you a cuddler? I’m a cuddler.”

James isn’t sure, but he likes the idea. “One way to find out.”

Sam shakes his head, amused, settling himself down so he’s got one leg sprawled across James, head resting against his chest. James decides this is nice. Sam takes a modulated breath, and James finds his own heart rate finally settling into a moderate pace, keeping time with Sam. 

“See, this is why we should have cut the fast food sooner. It’s bad for the libido.”

James chuckles.

“Fine by me.” He wraps an arm around Sam, holding him a little bit closer.  _ Very nice _ , he thinks. Sam is warm, and he can feel the heat they’re sharing between them. It’s a feeling he wants to get used to. “You give any thought to the itinerary?”

“The itinera-? Really?!” Sam sits up, and James finds he dislikes that. It’s cold where Sam is no longer touching him. “When was I gonna do that?”

James shrugs. “Shower? Get back down here,” he tugs Sam closer. “I think you might be right. About us having worked ourselves out of a job. Not that I miss Hydra.”

“Sure,” Sam murmurs.

“But we could probably do more. I found a lot of reports from people the police couldn’t help. And it’s not like anyone’s looking for us. What with my being presumed dead and your arrest being off the books.”

“Can’t admit they lost you if they can’t own up to illegally detaining you,” Sam’s voice is loopy.

“Sam.”

“Mhm?”

“Are you falling asleep?”

“No.”

James frowns.

“Sam?”

“Mmmm?”

“Are you lying?”

“... maybe.”

James is overtaken by a warm feeling, distinct from the arousal of before, and fondly nuzzles Sam’s head. 

“How about I take you to bed?”

Snickering, Sam lets Bucky lead him towards the pillows. “I dunno,” he mutters, “I think you should at least buy me dinner first.”

James is glad he has excellent reflexes; Sam is good and it would be unfortunate to drop him over a joke that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And and extra-special thank you to Jill for supporting the fundraiser for Puerto Rico. It was an honor to write for you <3

**Author's Note:**

> Ok but we all know the in-universe Reagan would have recorded a Captain America-themed album while he was still an actor.


End file.
